It’s a Long Way to Birmingham...
Joey took a bottle of red wine from the minibar and prepared two glasses. Then a bright idea entered his mind. Why not make the upcoming meeting even sweeter? It’s not only Birmingham awaiting him, but also Manchester... He needs all the encouragement he can get. He fished in the pocket of his black shirt (no checked shirts today, just plain working outfit) and his hand emerged with a tiny sack of pink powder. The old hunched woman at the open-air market (where he was searching for old Tokyo Olympics records to buy them, autograph them and then sell on ebay as "the rarest of rarities") said it was the most effective aphrodisiac he could buy in this galaxy. He slipped the powder into the glasses, then uncorked the bottle and poured ruby-red wine over it.
He swept away the crumpled papers from the table and kicked them into a corner. He pondered the scene (stains of ash on the tablecloth, a tattered porno magazine peeking from under the pillow on the sofa), then took out a candle from his pocket (he pinched it earlier that day downstairs in the hotel restaurant) and lit it on the table. Just as he was putting the lighter back into his pocket, the door of the room shuddered under a violent knock. Joey flinched. Lassie is really passionate today. But as he opened the door with a wide charming grin on his face, it wasn’t a sweet Irish rose entering the room, but a drunk and visibly shaken Shane.
Not now! Joey wailed silently. "What the fuck’s up?" he hissed through his teeth.
Instead of providing him with an answer, Shane thrust a scrap of paper into his face and then crumpled onto a chair. To Joey’s surprise it was a print-out from the internet. Not daring to inquire where Shane got such an unusual thing (maybe the bartender was a greedy wretch trying to divert Shane’s attention with this crap and then watering his whiskey), Joey scanned it quickly.
"What the fuck’s up?" he repeated. "A bunch of frigging fans are babbling about their plans for Birmingham. Morons."
Shane stuck his finger into one particular place: "wwfcpogue: tis the big day, if you see me come over and say hello, im a big guy, with a shaved head, ill be wearing a green shane hoodie, see ya there."
Joey listened to the incomprehensible mumbling and gurgling that spilled from Shane’s mouth for a while and then shook his head.
"No, Shane, calm down. Hoodie isn’t hoodlum... I think. Pull yourself together! The motherfucker isn’t going to smash your fucking head with scaffolding."
(That old scaffolding incident was an unfortunate event, indeed. Yes, Joey gave that shithead Liam three sacks of diluted coke to "beat the arse out of the idiot". But he was supposed to beat the idiotic roadie who laughed his head off when he heard Joey industriously practicing the tricky whistling of Dirty Old Town and commented "my dirty old goat would do it better". How could Joey expect that Shane would choose the unfortunate moment to visit the toilet as well?)
However, Shane didn’t seem to calm down. Joey stole a glance at his watch. Lassie can be there at any minute.
"Relax, Shane. Sit in the fucking fantastic bar downstairs, drink a drink on me. I’ll join you in a moment, and we’ll discuss what to do."
What a professional managerial advice. Joey was proud of himself. He cast a meaningful glance at Shane, who returned him a blank, desperate gaze, then grabbed the nearer glass of wine and gulped it down in one long swig.
"Hey!!"
Shane didn’t seem to hear his protest. He struggled to reach the other glass, knocking both the bottle and the candle over. Not heeding the spilt liquid (which luckily extinguished the flame) he emptied the other glass even more hungrily than the first one.
"Shit," he commented at the quality of the drink, then tossed the fragile glass on the floor shattering it into a thousand glittering pieces and continued to blankly stare at the opposite wall.
Joey sighed a resigned sigh. No problem for an efficient personal assistant, just a mild inconvenience. He’ll take the lass to some other room, let Shane explore the content of the minibar and then call a couple of strong roadies to escort the Irish treasure to the taxi, carrying him and binding him if necessary. Piece of cake. Just as he was about to say farewell, Shane opened his eyes wide, clutched his stomach and then fell onto a floor heavily like a sack of potatoes.
Was the wine too weak for him? Joey wondered. Do the bastards supply the hotel minibar with some watered-down crap? But then, all of a sudden, a realization came to him. He remembered the pink powder... He looked at Shane contracting on the floor. Well, maybe it will be a bit more than a mild inconvenience. He tried nudging him with the point of his shoe. He tried pouring Guinness and whiskey all over him. He tried playing him Ronan Keating’s version of Fairytale Of NY on the CD player. But to no avail.
With another sigh (deeper and even more resigned this time), he left the room, kicking the wine bottle violently out of his way. He went to search for the roadies to carry Shane to a car, to his Tipperary farm, to the nearest doctor or fuck-knows-where, while he himself will once again have to seek out a shelter from angry fans. And once again it isn’t his fault!
*********
Message from Manchester gig organizers:
"Dear SWAP Friends,
This concert has been cancelled due to Shane contracting a severe stomach virus. Shane wants you to know that he will bounce back. He is very sorry and upset at not being here but the Doctor has told him he must not fly from Dublin or work until he gets well."
